Protected Entity

Protected Entity Part 1 of 2

Short, sullen-faced child ghosts are hovering around my legs. They don't speak, just stare through wide, horrified eyes at the misty warehouse around us. I don't like kids that much, especially not dead ones, but I still have to force back the urge to just wrap my living arms around them and tell 'em it's gonna be alright. It's not. They're dead; prematurely, horrifically dead, murdered probably. What do you say to a murdered child? I just stay quiet; try to ignore those questioning eyes.

"Carlos," Bartholomew Arsten floats towards me from one of the offices. Bart's one of the Council's more reconciliatory ghosts upstairs, always trying to make like he's doing his best to work things out for us soulcatchers in the field. I don't trust him. "Thanks so much for coming down, we really appreciate it." He looks nervous, skirting carefully through the crowd of youngins like he might catch something if he touches one.

"Whassup?" I say as if the answer weren't hovering all around me. It's more fun to make him explain.

"Well," says Bart, "it seems there's been some kind of incident, er, spiritual incident, you know, of some kind, in the African American community."

"What makes you think so?"

You'd think we were playing tennis, the way those wide eyes bounce back and forth between me and Bart.

"Well, all these..." he gestures helplessly at the air, "children. These bla–African American...children."

"Looks like someone having a damn celebrity adoption auction down here."

Bart laughs, but only for show. He's too busy being uncomfortable to really pay mind to what I'm saying. "Of course, yes. Yes. Anyway, Agent Delacruz, that's why we brought you in, as you can see. And Agent Washington, of course, is on this too, he's just otherwise occupied right now, but he'll meet you at the scene."

"Buncha black kids get offed so you bring in the only two minorities you got, huh?"

"Yes! No! Well, of course I mean, because...no. No."

"Whenever you're ready, Bart."

"We don't know what to do, Carlos, they won't even speak! And they keep showing up, there're what, seven, eight now? It's crazy. We just want to help them, but you can see how the situation's getting, er, unbearable... It's horrible really, whatever's going on. And we don't know their names, where they're from... Nothing."

I wrap my hands around one of those little cloudy waists and lift up the child to my eye level. He squirms, tiny arms waving in the air, and lets out a few pathetic chirps. The others get quiet and watch to see what I'll do. "What's your name, kid?"

The boy lets out a heartbreaking sob, his little icy body trembling in my hands. I close my eyes, blocking everything but the gentle vibrations radiating back from my hands. It's mostly emotion coming through, all that brand new fear, but there's relief there too. Seems like all the boys know each other somehow, besides having died together.

"God, I just want to do something for them, you know, like, start a program or something, you know?"

I put the kid down and grab another, ignoring Bart so as not to encourage him. This one's a little more together. Perfectly twisted ghost locks dangle from his round head. He doesn't cry, just glares back at me like I had something to do with this mess. But when I close my eyes, it's like looking through a slightly smudged window into him. It's a block, a pretty damn fancy one; gorgeous brownstones stand proudly on either side. BMWs, SUVs and Mercedes are parked along the grassy, tree-lined curbs.

"I mean, like, a program for the underprivileged, you know? Like, for ghosts who were poverty stricken in life? A way to, like, help them to help themselves." Bart's words flutter around me like a stupid moth – one I can ignore for now. Might be in Harlem, this block, maybe up by 125th, on the west side. I squinch up my closed eyes, trying to clear up the image enough to make out a street sign but it's still pretty murky.